


with you my world has started

by camellialice



Series: when tomorrow comes [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, M/M, actually everyone's an idiot, but there's a happy ending, grantaire and enjolras are both idiots, party games are silly things, they are my brotp, warning for mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camellialice/pseuds/camellialice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One wintry morning, Grantaire follows his friend into a little café and his world stops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with you my world has started

One wintry morning, Grantaire follows his friend into a little café and his world stops.

 

Grantaire knows Feuilly from his sculpture class, and Feuilly knows Bahorel from kindergarten (Jesus, they’ve known each other forever), and Bahorel is friends with Bossuet, who’s dating Joly, who has a crush on Musichetta, who’s working at a café where some guys started a social justice club and it’s pretty cool and you guys should totally come.

Grantaire snorts into his drink and says, “Fuck no.”

When Eponine picks him up at one in the morning, he is one hundred percent wasted.  She takes him home and holds his hair as he vomits over the toilet.

 

The next morning, he wakes up feeling like total shit, and sits up when he smells coffee.  He stumbles to Eponine’s table, where she’s waiting for him, fully dressed.

“We need to talk,” she says before he can even sit down.

“Why are you even dressed?”

“It’s a Wednesday.  I have school.  You do too, R.”

“Fuck that.” He reaches for a bagel.

“Seriously, Grantaire, I am being serious.  With my serious face.”

“I see your serious face.”

“You were really drunk last night.  Like, puking on my floor level drunk.  On a school night.  Do you see the problem here?”

“Is this the part where I promise to give up drinking? Because that’s not happening.”

“I know, R, I know. But get your shit together.  Go join a club or something.”

 

So one wintry morning, Grantaire follows Feuilly into a little café and his world stops.

 

“I actually know one of these guys, his name is Enjolra or something?  He’s in my history class, and he never shuts up,” Feuilly informs him on their way to the meeting.  “I think they’re called Les Amis de l’ABC, Joly said—“

Clever, Grantaire thinks, and zones out.  He literally could not care less about social justice or being friends with the oppressed.  He really just wants to go home.  But alas, Feuilly’s opening the door to the café, which is a small relief, at least, in that he gets to escape the cold, and really, he should have brought a scarf and—

And he freezes in the doorway, eyes locked on a man he thought he’d never get to see again.

 

Enjolras has always glowed with an irrepressible passion, a fiery flame burning from his heart outwards, illuminating every room he walks into, every conversation he joins, every life he touches.

And once, a hundred or so years ago, he touched Grantaire’s.

Standing in the door of a small, unassuming, cramped café, filled to the brim with posters and books and broke college students, Grantaire’s former life comes crashing back to him: snippets of meetings and booze and friendships but mostly Enjolras, a sort of revolutionary angel flitting from memory to memory, shouting, yelling, inspiring, terrifying, charming, beautiful.  Grantaire stands before his golden god of Liberty and for once in this life, he can’t speak.

Enjolras blinks and says, “Who’s this?”

 

There’s a new kid at the meeting.  Feuilly brought him.  He’s doesn’t say much, but even so, Enjolras finds it very difficult to look away from him.  He’s gorgeous, but not in a very traditional way: A beanie is squashed over his dark curls and he’s kind of slouching in his seat, but his eyes are bright and sharp and follow Enjolras around the room.  His shirt is covered with paint splatters and his pants unfairly tight, and Enjolras thinks he shouldn’t be hot at all but he is, very much so.

Enjolras is on fire that night.  He tells himself it isn’t for the benefit of the new kid, but he can’t help the way he looks over for a reaction after each speech.

“His name’s Grantaire,” Bahorel tells him after the meeting.  “I’m still not sure how we convinced him to come.”

“I hope he says something next time,” Enjolras muses.

Bahorel quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing.

That night, Enjolras has a nightmare.

 

“I take it the meeting went well?”

Grantaire considers all the possible answers to this question, and settles on, “Uh-huh.”

He can hear Eponine’s laugh over the phone.  “Feuilly said you were mooning over someone the whole time.”

“I was not mooning!” Grantaire cries, outraged.

“Uh huh.”

“Do you ever feel like you’ve been waiting for someone all your life, and then all of a sudden they’re right in front of you and they don’t even notice you?”

“Er, no.  Sorry.  Look, I gotta go, someone’s coming over…”

“It had better not be Montparnasse.”

There is silence on the other end.

“Goddammit, I thought you two had stopped fucking.”

“I think he’s at the door, I love you, good luck with your crush!” And before Grantaire can respond, the call ends with a click.

 

Because Grantaire is Grantaire, and unable to resist blonde men in red jackets named Enjolras (of which there is only one in the world, thank god, he couldn’t handle another), he goes to the next meeting.  This time, he actually says something, even if it’s only to point out how wrong Enjolras is.  This earns him a glare.

And oh, Grantaire has missed that glare.

So it begins, the back and forth of their familiar arguments, the steady and comforting rivalry Grantaire is used to, and even if it sort of hurts, he doesn’t care, because now at least Enjolras has noticed him.

When Grantaire doesn’t fit in somewhere, he usually leaves.  But here is Enjolras, and he has to stay, so he tries a new strategy: he makes a niche for himself.

 

Enjolras remembers the first meeting, and wondering what sorts of new and exciting things Grantaire would contribute.  He now wants a time machine so he can go back to that day and slap himself.

Grantaire is, in short, the bane of Enjolras’s existence.  He’s an injustice in and of himself.  He saunters into meetings and tears down every word Enjolras says, laughs at their ideals, drinks nonstop in his corner.  It’s awful.  It’s unfair.  Enjolras would kick him out, if the others would let him.

They all think Grantaire is great.  Enjolras wonders if he still has any faith left in majority rule.

But they keep holding meetings, and Grantaire keeps coming, and Enjolras keeps trying to save the world, and Grantaire keeps obstructing him, and Enjolras seethes and goes home to have nightmares.

 

It’s a month before Grantaire starts bringing Eponine to meetings, two months before he feels a part of les Amis, three before he’s invited to a party at Courfeyrac’s house.  Grantaire likes Courfeyrac, always has—there’s something about his easygoing friendliness that makes him instantly likable.

And even if Enjolras wasn’t coming, Grantaire has enough friendships within the group that he’d go anyway.

Jehan brings a girl from his English class, and Enjolras spends the whole evening talking to the two of them.  She’s passionate about women’s rights, is studying Gender Politics, wants to get involved with Les Amis, and is absolutely gorgeous.  And cheerful.  And brilliant.  And perfect.

Grantaire is miserable.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Courfeyrac decides they should play Truth or Dare.

 

It’s actually not an awful party, thus far.  Enjolras finds himself forgetting entirely about the History paper due next week, and instead has fun.  Jehan’s brought a girl named Cosette, who’s really passionate about a lot of causes and keeps asking about Les Amis.  She’d be a great addition to their group, and he invites her to the next meeting.  She beams and Jehan smiles and Courfeyrac looks dreadfully unhappy.

It’s because of this unhappiness that Enjolras agrees to play a game.  He almost never does, but if it’ll make Courfeyrac happy, he’ll do anything.

Well, almost anything.

“I’m not telling you that!” Enjolras is certain his face is red.

“You picked truth.  You have to tell us,” Jehan informs him.

“That’s personal!”

“I think that’s the point,” Combeferre chimes in, unhelpfully.

“Come on, Enjy, how many people have you slept with?”  Courfeyrac asks again.

“Don’t call me that!”

“You’re not a virgin, are you?”

“Oh, Enjolras!”

“Of course he’s a virgin,” Grantaire interjects.  “Have you seen him? Our celibate Apollo? Untouched by human hands?”  There are snickers.  Enjolras’s face is definitely red.

“Two!” He finally says, glaring at Grantaire, who says nothing, while the rest of the group reacts unnecessarily. “Jehan, Truth or Dare?”

“Truth.”

And because he is feeling spiteful, he asks, “Who, in this room, do you write your love poems about?”

Jehan’s face goes scarlet, Cosette covers her mouth, and before Jehan can answer Courfeyrac rockets to his feet.  “New game!” He declares, and grabs a bottle that Grantaire has emptied.

“You can’t be serious...” Combeferre groans.

“Oh, my dear, ‘Ferre, but I am.  Quite serious.”  He places it on the ground and asks,  “Who first?”

“Grantaire hasn’t gone,” Eponine chirps, and Grantaire glares at her.  She smiles sweetly and hands him the bottle.

“Spin!” Courfeyrac cheers, and Grantaire does.

It points to Enjolras (of course), whose stomach drops a couple thousand feet.

Grantaire’s face has gone white, and he looks up at Enjolras with something akin to fear in his bright blue eyes.  His tongue darts out almost imperceptibly to moisten his bottom lip and Enjolras almost seriously considers reaching across the circle to take Grantaire’s face in his hands and kiss him, imagines running his own tongue across Grantaire’s lip and into his mouth, wonders what Grantaire would taste like, and snaps out of it.

“I’m not playing,” he says, more sharply than he meant to, and stands up.

Grantaire is stone-faced.

Immediately Enjolras regrets what he’s said but he’s already standing and can’t take it back now.  He picks up his glass and goes to refill it with water, and as he turns on the tap he hears Courfeyrac say, “Well, if Enjolras isn’t going to take advantage of this golden opportunity...”

Enjolras walks back in to see Courfeyrac snogging Grantaire quite enthusiastically in the middle of the circle, and beelines back to the kitchen, where he rests his head against the cupboard and wonders why he suddenly feels ill.

 

Cosette comes to the next meeting, which is delightful, save for the suffocating tension in the room.  Jehan hasn’t spoken to Courfeyrac since the party, Enjolras won’t look at Grantaire, and Eponine seems pissed at all of them.

Grantaire isn’t going to even pretend it didn’t hurt when Enjolras outright refused to kiss him, but he can’t say he was surprised.  This is the way things have always been, will always be, and if Grantaire’s feelings about Enjolras haven’t changed, why would he expect Enjolras’s feelings about him to?

It sucks, it really does, but Grantaire is used to things sucking.

Halfway through the meeting, Jehan excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Grantaire follows him, without bothering to excuse himself.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course I am,” Jehan smiles, and Grantaire wonders if he knows how bad of a liar he is.

But Grantaire also knows that Jehan doesn’t want to talk about it, so he takes another route. “Look, I just wanted to find out... There’s nothing going on between you and Cosette, right?”

Jehan is baffled. “What? No.”

“Good, because Courfeyrac was really upset during the party.  He thought you two were... well, it doesn’t matter.”

Jehan is struggling to contain his grin.  “Oh, gosh no, we just... Um.  I’d better get back to the meeting.”

And he practically skips out of the bathroom.

Grantaire wishes things were this easy to fix with Enjolras.

 

Enjolras has wished since the party that he could take back what he did.  He’s always had a tendency to act rashly, and it often backfires on him, and this time, it hurts especially hard.  He can’t even look at Grantaire, because all he sees is Grantaire and Courfeyrac kissing: their lips locked together, eyes closed, Grantaire’s hand reaching up for Courfeyrac’s cheek.  Grantaire doesn’t speak during that meeting, not even when Enjolras secretly tries to provoke him into debate, and Enjolras finds himself missing the cynic’s input more than he ever thought he would.

“Just go talk to him,” Combeferre says after the meeting, and he doesn’t even have to say Grantaire’s name for Enjolras to know who he’s talking about.

So before Grantaire can follow Eponine out the door, Enjolras taps him on the shoulder, and pretends not to notice the expression in Grantaire’s eyes when he realizes who it is.

“Can we talk?”  Grantaire nods, so they go over to the corner and sit.  Enjolras taps his knees nervously.

“Look, I just wanted to apologize about the other night...”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I was rude.  It’s not that I didn’t want to kiss you-- I’m not saying I want to kiss you, I mean, I-- shit.  I’m sorry.”

Grantaire looks mildly amused.  “I know you have no intentions of ever kissing me, Apollo.  You don’t have to apologize for that.”

I do want to kiss you, Enjolras thinks, but instead says,  “I’m not good at dealing with awkward situations--”

“I can tell.”

“--and I panicked.  That’s all.  It had nothing to do with you or anything, and I didn’t want you to think that I hated you or anything.”

“Point taken.”  Grantaire stands. “I’d better go, Ponine’s waiting...”

“Right,” Enjolras nods, and Grantaire leaves.

Enjolras goes home, and has nightmares.

 

Eponine walks home with Grantaire, and follows him upstairs.

“What was that about?” She asks, once they’ve reached the comfort of his sofa.

“Nothing.”  He stares up at the ceiling and counts the paint splatters.

“Really?”

“He apologized.  That’s all.”  Five.  Three red, one green, one blue.  He wonders how they all got up there.

“That was nice of him.”

“Yeah, well.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You two really need to get your shit together.”

“There’s no shit to be gotten together.”  He wishes there were more splatters, just so he could avoid this conversation.

 She sighs.  “Please don’t fuck this up.  Your last boyfriend was an asshole, and I actually like Enjolras.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.  He doesn’t even like me.”

Eponine snorts.  “Uh-huh.”

“Look, we’re not talking about my love life.  We just aren’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Does Enjolras know how you feel?”

“No.  Shut up.”

Eponine huffs.  “You two are so stupid.”

“Fuck you.  I’m brilliant.”

“Have you told--”

Grantaire sits up.  “You wanna talk about our love lives? Fine.  Let’s talk about our love lives.  How’s Montparnasse, Eponine?”

Her expression darkens.  “Fine.”

“And you?”

“Fine.”

“Really? I’m not so sure about that.”

“Shut up.”

“Where did those bruises come from, Eponine?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

She looks close to crying, and Grantaire feels like an asshole, so he wraps his arms around her and pulls her against him.  She goes limp in his embrace, and leans against his chest.

“We should elope,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” he hums against her cheek.  “Let’s get married and live in a house by the sea together.”

“With Gavroche?”

“With Gavroche.”

“Okay.”

He kisses her cheek and holds her while they watch The Wizard of Oz, ghosting his fingertips over her purpley-green bruises and imagining a thousand ways for Montparnasse to die.

 

Months pass, and pass, and pass, and with each day Grantaire remembers more and more details about his past life.  He remembers les Amis, he remembers the old Musain, he remembers drinking with his friends and waking up to blood and death.

He remembers the gentle pressure of Enjolras’ hand in his, and the crooked half smile Enjolras graced him with, seconds before they died.

He wonders if Enjolras remembers, and with each passing week, he realizes that he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t be surprised (no one else seems to remember, not even Eponine), but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel like shit about it.

 

And Enjolras can’t explain why when he fights with Grantaire, it hurts so badly, can’t explain why he gets so angry when he sees Grantaire with other people, can’t explain why the thought of losing Grantaire makes him so upset.

He’s known Grantaire for a little over a year or so, but something about him makes it feel like forever, and Enjolras has no idea what.

He hates not knowing, but when it comes to Grantaire, he understands none of his own feelings.

Musichetta watches him watch Grantaire leave after a meeting, and sighs, “Ah, young love.”

Enjolras throws a book at her while Joly and Bossuet laugh, but later that night, he wonders what she meant.

There’s a part of him that feels like it’s missing, like he’s lost something and can’t remember what, and maybe Grantaire’s connected to that piece, because when Grantaire smiles at him, Enjolras almost feels whole, but has no idea why.

 

And then one day Enjolras does remember, and it’s everything either of them could have hoped for.

 

They are watching Sherlock for the millionth time (Enjolras loves it, Grantaire loves him), curled up on the sofa with their legs entangled and fingers entwined.  “When did you first remember?” Enjolras asks, looking at Grantaire over the lip of his mug.

“From the moment I saw you,” Grantaire answers honestly, and Enjolras smiles, setting down his tea to kiss him.

 

One wintry morning, Grantaire follows his friend into a little café and his world starts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! I didn't really expect this to become a series but i can't get these characters out of my head. I admit i don't like this one as much as the first fic, but this version infinitely better than the first draft. You wouldn't believe what i tried to do to these poor characters.
> 
> I love you all, and infinite thanks to anyone who has given me kudos or comments, as well as my beautiful beta, [freddie](http://smarterwinchester.tumblr.com). You guys are the best.
> 
> As always, i can be found at my [tumblr](http://mydearoswin.tumblr.com). Thanks so much!  
> xxoo


End file.
